


Helpless Dancer

by orphan_account



Category: The Who (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Bars and Pubs, Blood and Injury, Classic Rock, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Fist Fights, Flirting, Fluff, Meet-Cute, The Who Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 06:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20903297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: As Keith Moon's best friend, it's up to you to keep him out of trouble. When he insists on going dancing, you have no choice but to tag along. You meet Roger for the first time, and help him get cleaned up after a bar fight.





	Helpless Dancer

**Author's Note:**

> Meet-cute requested by a Tumblr anon, where Keith Moon is the best friend, and Roger Daltrey is the love interest.

“Come on, Y/N, it’ll be fun,” Keith whined, tugging on your ankle as you sprawled out on your bed. “Don’t be such a bore.” A well-aimed kick hit Keith right in the thigh, which encouraged him to release his hold on you.

“That’s what you get for being a prat,” you grouched, continuing to read the magazine splayed out on the bedspread in front of you. “Ask John to go with you if you’re so desperate to get smashed.” With a heavy sigh, Keith pitched himself forward and landed on the bed beside you, sending the bag of Tayto crisps beside you sailing across the room. “Keith, what the hell!?” 

“John’s always out with that new girl of his, so he’s not a bit of fun anymore,” your best friend complained, tucking his arms beneath his chin. “But since no one’s met your standards yet, I can always count on _you_ being free for a night out.” 

“Thanks,” you monotoned, shooting Keith a dirty look. “Glad my dismal love life is convenient for you.” Keith buried his face in his arms, realizing how his words must have come across; he truly hadn’t meant to offend you. It was true that you were pretty picky when it came to dating. You had big plans for your future, so you had no interest in hanging out with any old rando who’d tried to chat you up at the club. 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” the drummer grouched. “Just please, this one time, take a break from schoolwork and come have a bit of fun. You haven’t been out dancing in ages.” He was right – you _had_ really let school get in the way of any attempt at having a normal social life. Sometimes, you had a difficult time justifying a break; if you were going to get where you wanted in life, you needed solid marks and extra-curricular activities that proved you to be a well-rounded person. Maybe it was time to let loose, just for one evening… 

“Alright,” you huffed, slamming your textbook closed. “But I’ve got some rules.” Keith rolled his eyes and groaned, but didn’t stop you from listing them. “I’m not gonna drink to the point of making myself sick, and I’ll certainly not be doing pills. You can piss your life away on uppers if you want, but I’ve got class first thing on Monday morning, and I’m not missing it just because you wanted to get high together.” 

“Fine,” your companion agreed, reaching over to shake your hand. “Anything else, Your Highness?” Keith’s mocking posh accent was teasing, but you weren’t in the mood for him to make fun of you for making good life choices. 

“I’m not going home with any of your mates,” you warned, “so quit trying to introduce me to people. I could do just fine on my own, if I wanted to.” 

“I would never—” Keith started indignantly, but he stopped himself. “Okay, well there was that one time at the Marquee…” 

“More than once.” 

“Okay, twice—” 

“What about that time when you told Pete—” 

“Fine, okay, I won’t introduce you to anyone with the sole purpose of getting you laid,” Keith promised sarcastically, “but don’t come crying to me when you’re too bloody nervous to talk to some bloke with good hair and a full-time job.” You slung an arm over your best friend’s back and leaned your head against his arm. 

“Thank you,” you sighed, resigning yourself to surrender to Keith’s attempts to get you out of the house for the first time in what seemed like months. He really did want the best for you. Even if John had agreed to go out with him, you would still have been invited, you knew; the two of you, both born and raised in a working-class Wembley neighbourhood, had been joined at the hip since childhood. 

“I just want you to be happy, y’know?” Keith said, turning his head to look over at you. You rested your cheek atop your own arms, mirroring Keith’s position, and met his sweet brown eyes. You smiled, appreciating that he was the only person who had ever truly understood you – loved you for exactly who you were, and not for what anyone else wanted you to be. 

“I know.” 

* * * * * 

The club was more crowded that you liked, but for the sake of your friend, you pasted a grin on your face and pushed through the clumps of loitering patrons gathered around tables. The floors were sticky, as always, and the room was much too warm. _Typical night out with Keith_, you thought. 

The music was decent enough, and provided something to dance to. Really, the only reason you enjoyed the club scene at all was the opportunity to dance. When you and Keith had first started sneaking into clubs as teens, you’d been surprised to find that you weren’t half-bad at dancing, despite your lack of experience. Keith tended to flail about without any particular talent, but your own movements were natural and coordinated, as though you’d taken lessons as a child or something. 

“Oh look, the boys are here!” Keith exclaimed, pointing towards the dance floor. Pete and his girlfriend Karen were swaying back and forth to a quick jazz tune, both already a bit tipsy, it seemed. John and his new flame were close by, staring intently into each other’s eyes, but not moving much. Keith’s disinterest in being alone with them made a lot of sense now; their lovey-dovey behaviour was almost nauseating. 

“Are we drinking or dancing first?” you asked, leaning in so Keith could actually hear you above the din. 

“D’you really have to ask?” Keith laughed, jerking his head towards the bar. “Beer or perry, doll?” 

“I’d love a Babycham,” you shouted, repeating the catchphrase you’d both heard a million times on the telly. This cracked Keith up; in fact, he laughed the entire time it took him to wade through dancers on his way to the bar. Now alone, you decided to make your way towards Keith’s bandmates, who were likely the only people you knew in the club tonight. Having taken the tube from Wembley to Acton, you were now out of the neighbourhood you’d grown up in, and instead found yourself immersed in the world of Keith’s friends, who you didn’t know all that well, even though they’d been in a band together for three or four years now. 

Previously having drummed for a surf band, Keith had worked his way into a new scene. R&B was the latest and greatest, he insisted, as was rock ‘n roll. The Beach Boys would always have his heart, but since joining The Who, your best friend had been buying new records, suggested by his bandmates, and sharing them with you: Duane Eddy, Chuck Berry, and The Everly Brothers were names you had started to hear over the past few months. Your preference had always been jazz, as it was fun to dance to, but Keith’s new music wasn’t so bad either. 

When Karen, a bold-eyed brunette, caught sight of you approaching, she raised her hands excitedly in the air and abandoned Pete as if he were last week’s news. 

“Y/N, you’re here!” she cried, lurching towards you. You threw your arms out, hoping to catch her in the event that she fell, and ended up receiving her into a sweaty but friendly embrace. “So good to see you out,” she effused, holding your face between her hands. “You work soooo hard, you deserve a break.” 

“Nice to see you too, Karen,” you smiled, hoping she would release your face from her grip sometime soon. Pete came to your rescue, evidently tolerating alcohol better than his girlfriend. 

“Alright, love, let’s give Y/N some space,” Pete encouraged, placing his hands on Karen’s shoulders. “Glad you could make it,” he said, smiling at you over top of the petite woman’s head. 

“Come dance, okay?” Karen insisted, pulling her hands from your face just to grab both your hands in hers instead. “Keith can catch up later.” 

“He’s just grabbing us some drinks,” you told her, hoping this excuse would be enough. As nice as Karen was, you preferred Keith’s company, especially when the rest of the crowd was unfamiliar to you. In your own neighbourhood, the club would have been packed with young people you’d gone to school or worked with; this was new territory, and would take some warming up to. 

As if he’d heard your plight from across the room, Keith returned just then with your perry in hand, as well as a beer that he’d already down half of. You thanked him, and began sipping at the drink, hoping to get it down before Karen or some other dancer inevitably jostled you and spilt it on the one decent going-out dress you owned at the moment. John and his girlfriend had finally noticed your arrival, and moved closer to greet the newcomers. 

“Any sign of Roger?” Keith asked, craning his neck to look around the room. Pete and John shook their heads, puzzled at the realization that it had been some time since they’d last seen him. The band’s vocalist, who you hadn’t actually met yet, had apparently disappeared. 

“Maybe he’s out for a smoke,” John suggested. “I’ll go out and check. Need some fresh air anyhow. Anyone want to join me?” Keith had stomped out his cigarette right outside the club’s door, so he declined, and Pete and Karen seemed content to continue dancing. John’s date excused herself to use the toilet, leaving only you to answer. 

“It’s bloody boiling in here,” you said, wiping your forehead with the back of your forearm. “I’ll come out, yeah.” You gave Keith a wave and followed the bassist, who was overheating in his leather jacket, towards the club’s side door. John held the door for you as you stepped out into the empty alley, and pulled two cigarettes from his jacket’s breast pocket. 

“Need a light?” he asked, passing a cigarette to you. 

“Thanks,” you smiled, placing the thin stick between your lips. John dug a book of matches from his trouser pocket, struck one, and cupped a hand around the end of your cigarette, lighting yours before his own. You smoked in silence, appreciating that John never felt the need to create conversation just for the sake of it. He was probably your favourite of all Keith’s friends; a few years Keith’s senior, John did his best to keep the drummer in line, while still getting into what Keith insisted was “a sufficient amount of mischief.” 

The alley was otherwise empty, which didn’t seem to be a common occurrence; empty bottles, cigarette butts, and forgotten items of clothing were strewn about the pavement, indicating that this was a highly-trafficked area. Against the dead-end wall of the alley stood an empty skip – surely a better place for all this rubbish, you thought to yourself. John had slipped out of his jacket, which was now draped over his free arm; he hummed a little tune to himself as he smoked, occasionally pausing to blow a perfect smoke ring towards the half-moon visible in the sky overhead. 

_This really isn’t so bad,_ you convinced yourself. _Keith could have suggested strip poker, or blowing up some abandoned fountain in a park; his idea of fun rarely coincided with yours, but still, he was the person you trusted most in the world. Hopefully, he was behaving himself without your and John’s supervision._

The sound of a man clearing his throat drew your attention, and you glanced down the alley in the direction of the street in search of the sound’s source. In the dimly-lit alley, you could only make out the shape of a short, thin man. John, having heard the noise as well, stepped forward and placed himself between you and the approaching figure for safety’s sake. When the man stepped into the light beaming down from an overhead lamp, John stood down, evidently recognizing the fellow. 

“Dip?” he asked, squinting. “S’that you?” 

“In the flesh,” the man confirmed, wincing as he spoke. Roger Daltrey, who you knew to be blonde, straight-haired and always well dressed, looked a right mess. 

“Christ, what happened to you?” John questioned, stepping forward to grasp his friend’s arm. “Are you alright?” Roger’s bottom lip was split and swollen, and a dark bruise was blooming on the right side of his face. 

“Should have seen the other guy,” Roger muttered under his breath. Before he tried to speak again, he turned towards the nearby brick wall and spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the pavement. John grimaced in disgust. 

“Someone look at you the wrong way again, or…?” The bassist waited for an explanation, but none was offered. As Roger wiped a bead of blood from his lower lip, you noticed the bruises and cuts on his knuckles; he had fought back, it seemed, and hard, at that. 

“Sorry it’s happening in this dodgy back alley,” you spoke up, “but it’s good to meet you. I’m Keith’s friend, Y/N. You must be Roger.” 

“Oh, I must be?” The man asked, not caring to meet your eyes. Roger’s voice was thick with sarcasm, and his arms were crossed defiantly over his chest, as though he were guarding himself from you. He leaned against the wall, either out of boredom or in a need for support after his fight, and flicked his fringe out of his face. 

“Well, are you?” you asked sharply, taken aback by his rudeness. Your tone seemed to snap him out of his dour mood, because his expression immediately softened; he was almost meek, now. Roger’s eyes, clear blue even in the dim lighting of the alley, offered a silent apology. 

“Yeah, I’m Roger,” he spoke, extending a hand. You accepted it, if only to turn it over and have a better look at his bruised knuckles. Dried blood had crusted around the centimetre-long split in his skin, which appeared to have stopped bleeding. 

“Looks like it hurts,” you observed, raising an eyebrow. 

“Worse’n it looks,” the blonde shrugged, falling back into the dismissive sarcasm he’d used at the start of the conversation. John, who towered above both you and Roger, cleared his throat and glowered down at his bandmate. He was rather unimpressed with the vocalist’s attitude, especially towards someone that mattered – being Keith’s best friend meant something, it seemed. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Roger huffed. “Yeah, it hurts a bit, I s’pose.” 

“I’m in nurses’ training, so I know a thing or two about cleaning up cuts. Could I give you a hand with bandaging these up?” Your voice was calm and free of judgement, which is likely why Roger didn’t take off running in the other direction. 

“He’d appreciate that,” John spoke up, making the decision on Roger’s behalf. “Follow the good lady, and she’ll patch you right up. No complaining, now.” Roger eyed John warily, but followed his friend’s recommendation and stepped past you towards the door. Both you and John tossed the remains of your cigarettes on the ground, and John stamped them out with the heel of his pointed leather shoe. 

“Let me just find a first aid kit,” you spoke, holding the heavy metal door as you re-entered the building. “I’m certain they’ll have one at the bar. Meet me outside the toilet in two minutes. And get a drink, if you need. Might dull the pain a bit.” 

“Men’s or women’s?” the blonde asked, glancing back at you over his shoulder. 

“Women’s smells better, I’m sure,” you teased. The corner of Roger’s mouth quirked upwards, the first sign of humour you’d seen in the man tonight. With a nod, he headed for the bar, limping slightly. John, who was still behind you, clapped a hand on your shoulder. 

“Thanks, Y/N,” he said appreciatively. “Sorry he’s such a sour-puss tonight, though. Not sure what’s got into him.” The uncertainty in the bassist’s voice was curious; Keith had told you how John and Roger had been in a band together before The Who had formed, so you guessed that they probably knew each other quite well. It seemed, though, that John was just as confused by the vocalist’s behaviour as you. 

“Maybe he lost a fight,” you speculated, shrugging. “I’m sure he’ll come round and tell you eventually.” John grunted an affirmative, ending the conversation, and you parted ways. 

As you’d anticipated, someone at the bar had an extensive first aid kit, stocked with plasters, bandages, ointments of all sorts, as well as some other odds and ends. You chose the items you thought would be best to fix Roger up, and thanked the man for his help. When you had waded back through the crowd, you were pleased to find that Roger was waiting outside the bathroom, looking rather sullen, though with a stiff drink in hand. 

“Alright, then?” you inquired as you approached. The blonde’s eyes shifted towards you; he had been watching his mates dance and have fun without him. 

“M’fine,” he said, nodding. “Got what you wanted?” 

“You’ll be better in no time,” you promised, giving him a dazzling smile. Even if he was going to be grouchy and pout all night, you felt no need to let his mood affect yours. With your hands full, you pushed against the swinging bathroom door with your back, and held it so Roger could step in as well. 

A young woman was touching up her lipstick in the mirror over the sinks, but she didn’t seem surprised to see a man in the ladies’ room. Roger tensed up upon seeing her, and he moved back towards the door, eager to offer the woman privacy. You blocked his way. 

“No one will mind that you’re in here,” you insisted. “Just get up on the counter there. The sooner we get you cleaned up, the sooner you can be out of here.” With great hesitancy and apprehension, Roger perched on the edge of the countertop, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment at having intruded on someone else. The young woman glanced his way and batted her eyelashes at your handsome companion, clearly unbothered by his presence; in fact, she appeared quite thrilled by him. 

“Let’s see your left hand first,” you suggested, having set your medical supplies out on the empty countertop. Roger shifted his drink to free up his hand, which he now offered to you. His knuckles were scraped and cut worse here than on his other hand, with a nasty gash on the fourth finger where he must have been wearing a ring. 

“Keith didn’t say you were married,” you said evenly, gingerly inspecting the depth of the cut by pushing and shifting the surrounding skin. “What’s her name?” 

“Jackie,” he answered soberly. “We’re not married anymore. Divorced was finalized a few months ago.” You ran the sink and wet a gauze sponge in the stream of warm water, and gently dabbed at the worst of the crusted blood. Roger hissed in pain; gesturing at him to drink up, you waited until he had finished his gin to continue cleansing his skin. 

“Sorry to hear that.” You glanced up at him, hoping your comment hadn’t been taken poorly. 

“It was for the best, I s’pose,” he sighed, leaning back against the mirror. “We don’t have to talk about that, though. Kind of a shit situation.” 

“Alright, then,” you said agreeably. “Any kids? Pets?” 

“Little boy called Simon,” Roger told you. “He’s four. And another boy, Mathias, who’s just a year old.” With his free hand, he tugged awkwardly at his shirt collar. “He’s, um, my child with, uh…someone else. Not my wife, er, my ex…wife.” The woman at the other sink, now finished with her makeup, sniffed loudly and exited the bathroom in a hurry. One moment ago, she had been ogling Roger from just a few feet away, but after hearing about his home situation, she had evidently lost interest. 

“Isn’t she a doll?” you joked, making Roger crack a smile once again. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he grinned, an attractive quality in your books. _Pay attention to the task at hand,_ you told yourself sternly. _You’re here to help Keith’s friend, not flirt with him._

“Your children – do they look like you?” you wondered aloud. As you touched the gauze to the edges of his cut, Roger winced and reflexively tried to pull away from you. With a disapproving _tsk tsk_, you rubbed your thumb across his hand in an attempt to comfort him. “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt for much longer.” 

“Bloody stings,” he grouched, gritting his teeth. Continuing to hold his hand, you gave him a momentary reprieve. Eventually, his jaw unclenched, his brow smoothed, and he opened his eyes. “Sorry,” he apologized gently. “You were saying?” 

“Do your boys look like you?” you repeated. “Oh, yeah. Blonde hair – very curly – and the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. Pretty like their mums, though, luckily.” His last comment had a hint of self-deprecation, which surprised you. Roger had a well-structured face, and was fit as a fiddle, just like his bandmates – was he being humble about himself, or did he truly not realize how handsome he was? 

“I’m sure they’re lovely little boys,” you murmured. “Sounds like you love them very much.” 

“I do,” he returned, his voice gentler now. “Wish I got to see them more often, though.” You placed a bit of gauze over the deepest of his cuts, wrapped his hand in a thin gauze bandage, and secured it with a piece of tape on the palm-side of his hand. 

“Well, that’s the worst of it,” you said, giving him one last lookover. Although his split lip was badly swollen, it would have to heal on its own. Roger, seeming content to stay in the quiet bathroom, made no move to release his hold on you. With a gentle squeeze, you pulled your hand from his, not wanting to give him any ideas. If you didn’t know better, you could have sworn that he seemed to deflate as you stepped back. 

“So was John right? Did someone look at you the wrong way?” Roger groaned at the prospect of having to explain himself. A sharp _thunk_ echoed around the tiled bathroom as he tilted his head back and let it strike the glass mirror. “Sorry,” you said, pressing your lips together to hold back a smile. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.” 

“I’ll have to tell someone eventually,” he muttered, “and it might as well be you, seeing as you’re helping me and all. It’s just – it’s really stupid. So, so stupid.” He was more embarrassed now than he had been on entering the ladies’ room. 

“I’m Keith Moon’s best friend,” you reminded him, “so I’ve both heard about and witnessed a lot – and I mean A LOT – of stupid shenanigans over the years. Hit me with your best shot, Daltrey.” He rolled his eyes, but seemed rather amused by your attempt to reassure him. You leaned your back against the wall, crossed your arms over your chest, and waited for him to begin. 

“Someone made a…comment, let’s say, about Pete.” 

“A comment,” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “What sort of comment?” Roger’s eyes grew dark, and for a moment you thought he wasn’t going to say anything at all. 

“Well,” he began, “this arsehole we all know from the pub circuit was going off about Pete being a…a fairy, let’s say, and I wasn’t about to stand around and let him say all that.” The man paused to take a few deep breaths, clearly getting worked up again just thinking about the whole event. “So I told him to step outside, that I had something to say to him…” 

“And?” 

“And then I broke his nose,” Roger said flatly. “It was stupid, I know it was. But I just got so angry.” 

“You broke someone’s _nose_ because he jokingly insinuated that Pete’s a _homosexual_?” you said slowly, trying to understand Roger’s actions. The man from the pub had been rude, you agreed with that much, but to get in a punch-up over something so silly as an insult seemed a bit rash. 

“No, I broke his nose because he’s been telling people that when we were all were touring up in Blackpool earlier this year, he saw Pete snog some bell boy from the hotel we stayed in,” Roger explained, keeping his voice down. “And if that got around to, say, Pete’s father, or his boss, he would be fucked.” 

“Oh,” was all you could think to say at the moment. 

“Are you going to tell Keith or John?” the vocalist asked. 

“Of course not,” you promised. “It’s true then, I assume?” 

“He’s my friend, and I couldn’t just stand there and listen to some wanker talk about him like that,” Roger said, ignoring your question. “John and Keith would have done the same, I know they would have. It’s Pete. He’s an unbearable twat sometimes, but we all love him to death.” As sure as his little speech sounded, Roger’s expression held a hint of doubt. 

“Come ‘ere,” you said, neglecting to care about keeping your distance from the handsome blonde anymore. “You need a hug.” As Roger slid off the counter and walked into your open arms, he breathed out a sigh of relief; the comforting touch of a woman was exactly what he needed. He slipped his hands around your waist and held you gingerly, as he had a few unseen bruises on his ribs that hurt to touch. Without thinking, you pressed a kiss to the skin of his throat and nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, revelling in his warmth and the scent of his cologne. 

“What was that for?” Roger asked wryly, the smile on his face audible in his voice. Your cheeks flushed bright red; you’d kissed him because it felt the natural thing to do. 

“Jesus, I’m so sorry,” you apologized, pulling away from him. “I didn’t mean to – don’t know what I was thinking—” 

“I didn’t mind,” Roger promised, holding fast to his grip around your waist. “I’d give you a real kiss if it wouldn’t split my lip further.” He leaned in so that his face hovered mere inches from your own. The man’s breath was warm with gin and the metallic scent of blood. 

“Aren’t you bold?” you teased, tilting your forehead to rest against his. With your faces so close, it was hard to look at each other without going cross-eyed, and the thought brought a peal of bubbly laughter to your lips. 

“I’ve been told I can be a bit cocky around beautiful women,” Roger murmured. Moving in synchrony, you allowed him to set his hands on your hips and guide you backwards until your back was against the wall. This was something you’d never experienced without kissing, but it somehow felt so much sexier, more intimate, this way. 

Of course, all good things must be rudely interrupted, so before anything else could happen, the bathroom door swung open and Keith stuck his head into the ladies’ toilet. 

“Hey, they’re playing _Rip It Up,_ next, they said,” he yelled, his mouth moving faster than his brain could process. When it finally caught up, Keith’s eyes went wide at the sight of you and Roger pressed against each other, and if he had been anyone else, he might have excused himself quietly without another word. Being Keith Moon, though, he stuck his thumb and middle finger into his mouth and let out a loud, shrill whistle. Annoyed by his interruption, you waved him away; he might be your best friend, but the last thing you needed right now was his presence. The door swung shut, leaving you and Roger alone once again. 

“Do you think he’s angry?” Roger asked immediately, his brow knit with worry. Keith had never mentioned having feelings for you, but the thought of having upset his bandmate by getting cosy with you concerned him deeply. 

“Course not,” you scoffed, leaning forward to kiss Roger’s smooth cheek. “He’s been trying to set me up with one of his mates for ages now. Probably chuffed to bits, thinking this is all his doing. ‘Saved me from dying an old maid,’ he’ll say.” Roger rolled his eyes, but grinned at the thought of Keith trying to play matchmaker; after all, the drummer was much better at knocking things down than setting them up. 

“So are we missing out on your song, then?” he inquired, referring to Keith’s announcement about the band’s set list. 

“We are,” you shrugged, “but I don’t mind. I’m a bit busy, you see, and there’ll be plenty of other dances.” Roger shook his head sternly, and released his hold on your waist. 

“Well, I _insist_ that we go out there,” he said seriously, “because I love Little Richard, and this is _my_ favourite song to dance to.” Without waiting for a response, he grabbed your hand and tugged you towards the bathroom door. “Come on, or we’ll miss it!” 

Roger led you across the dance floor, quickly locating your group of friends. They were sweaty and happily drunk, and seemed to have swapped partners for this dance. John was spinning Karen around and around, and Pete was attempting to follow the instruction of John’s girlfriend, who was trying (and failing) to teach the gangly teen a new step. As the two of you reached the group, the band finished their song, and the dance floor burst into applause. Keith bowed dramatically, having displayed his dancing skills (if you could call them that) to a group of giggly girls. 

“Just in time,” you exclaimed, giving Roger’s hand an appreciative squeeze. The band took a moment’s break, allowing the singer to take a sip of water, and the guitarist to rest his hands. The room buzzed with conversation during the lapse in music. As you and Roger greeted your friends, you saw Pete and John exchange surprised glances; they had never considered you as a partner for Roger. 

“Well isn’t this a sweet surprise,” Pete shouted above the noise of the crowd. 

“Now don’t get too excited,” you chastised the guitarist. “He’s only asked for a dance, not my hand in marriage.” Roger laughed at this, appreciating that you weren’t the sort of girl to assume that a bit of flirting meant you were going steady or something. He thought you were beautiful and kind, but needed a chance to get to know you better before declaring anything so serious. 

“Well, you can decide that sort of thing once you’ve seen him dance,” John spoke. The bassist caught your eye and winked, glad to see that you had managed to get Roger cleaned up, as well as whatever else had conspired between the two of you. You tried to keep from smiling, but couldn’t help it – as moody as the vocalist had been in the beginning, you’d seen something special in him during your time in the bathroom. He had expressed that he had some issues, but didn’t everyone? 

When the band picked back up, you were pleased to find that Roger was an excellent dancer. His feet were quick and his movements lithe, and before long, he had your skirt twirling and your cheeks pink with exertion. Dancing took a lot of energy, but Roger made it look easy. As you caught sight of other couples around you, you realized that you and Roger were one of the most skilled, stepping in time and anticipating the other’s next move. It helped that neither of you was sloppy drunk, a point which Karen appeared dangerously close to. 

At the end of the song, Roger drew you close and pecked your lips gingerly, careful not to make his lip start bleeding again. He was sensing that your friends were becoming a bit too tired and intoxicated to continue dancing, and he told you as much. 

“Best get them home safely, then,” you said decidedly. The two of you wrangled the five of your friends up, and encouraged them to head towards the door of the club. It took some shepherding, as they met people they knew between the dance floor and the front door, but within a few minutes, the seven of you stepped out into the street, which was quiet at this late hour. 

“Who’s got a light?” Keith hollered, earning a stern look. You reminded him that not everyone in the neighbourhood appreciated being woken up in the middle of the night, and he promised to be quiet, so long as John bummed him a cigarette. 

You and Keith agreed to walk everyone home before catching the tube back to Alperton, as Acton Town station was within walking distance. Roger’s hand remained clasped in yours for the entirety of the walk, even though the two of you didn’t have much of a chance to talk to each other. Karen and John’s girlfriend had pulled you into a conversation about the latest mod fashions, and Roger was chatting with the boys about some upcoming pub gigs they had booked. 

After John and his girlfriend had parted ways with the group, Pete decided that he should stay with Karen for the night, “for safety’s sake,” he insisted. As they had been walking, the young woman had clutched her stomach, bolted for the nearest bit of grass, and promptly vomited up an evening’s worth of alcohol into someone’s front garden. After that, she had been too woozy to walk on her own, so Pete and Keith each took an arm and supported the poor girl all the way up to the front door of her parents’ house. Thankfully, they were away on holiday; according to Pete, they would have been very upset to see their daughter in such a state. This left you and Roger alone on the front walk, waiting for Keith to return. 

“I’m just up the road,” Roger told you, gesturing with a tilt of his head. “Should probably get home.” You nodded, suddenly feeling quite shy. It was one thing to flirt with someone in the noisy darkness of the club, but another thing entirely to stand alone in the dim light of the streetlamps. 

“It was good – lovely, er, nice to meet you,” you said, stumbling over your words as you tried to bid him farewell. Roger laughed softly, and pulled you into a tight hug. As your body connected with his, he made a choked noise of pain, having forgotten how much his ribs were hurting after the fight he’d gotten into. “Sorry, oh my goodness,” you apologized profusely, pulling back. 

“No, no, that was my fault,” he chuckled weakly. “Just wanted to hold you again, but I s’pose I should be more careful.” Roger reached out once more and gently drew you towards him. The swelling in his lip seemed to have gone down some, but he was still cautious in the way he kissed you – softly, but so sure in his decision to do so. For the first time in ages, you felt butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. 

“Will I see you again?” he asked once he had pulled away. “I know you’re probably busy, working or in school or whatever, but…” 

“I want to see you,” you said confidently. “I work days, but usually get the weekends off. And I could come to one of your shows – Keith always invites me, after all.” Roger nodded, relieved that his interest was reciprocated. He rested his chin atop your head and quietly revelled in the warmth of your body against his. 

“I’m glad I got into that stupid fight,” he murmured, tracing shapes on your back through the fabric of your dress. “It fucking hurts, but if I hadn’t…” 

“We might not have met,” you finished his sentence. “I’m glad you got in that fight, too. For selfish reasons, of course, but also because you stood up for Pete.” Roger nodded, nuzzling his chin against your hair. The two of you stood silently after that, just happy to be in each other’s company. After another minute or two, Keith came bounding out of Karen’s house, now eager to get home for the night. 

“Forgot that I’ve got some grass waiting for me at home,” the drummer announced excitedly. “Interested, Y/N?” 

“Not tonight, thanks,” you declined politely. “It’s getting late, Moonie.” 

“Alright, then,” he pouted. “Kiss the prince and let’s be off, alright?” Keith began walking in the direction of Acton Town station, giving you and Roger one last moment together. You pulled a pen from your handbag and scribbled your telephone number onto Roger’s hand, instructing him to give you a call in the next few days. 

“I’ve got to go now,” you apologized, knowing he would understand. “Keith’ll jump down onto the tube tracks and try to find the train otherwise.” Roger nodded, leaning down to give you one last kiss. 

“Night, Y/N,” he whispered. 

“Goodnight, Roger.”


End file.
